


Sleepwalker

by MaxWrite



Series: The Sleepwalker Series [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Harry Potter RPF
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, POV First Person, RPF, Sleepy Sex, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-13
Updated: 2005-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxWrite/pseuds/MaxWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When James sleepwalks, he's free to seek out what he truly wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepwalker

We slept in the same bed until we were seven. I dunno why, we just liked being together. Dad worried.

“It’s not normal. Boys aren’t supposed to be all … all …”

“Affectionate?” offered mum.

“Well … yes, quite frankly, they’re not.”

“Martyn, that’s ridiculous.”

“I was never like that with my brother.”

“Yes, and now you only talk to him at holidays and reunions. Can we please just let them enjoy this before they out grow it? Please?”

Dad sighed. “Well, just as long as they _do_ outgrow it.”

“I’m sure they will. I highly doubt they’ll be seventeen and still sharing a bed.”

They never did realise just how much their voices carried up through those heating vents in the old house.

Well, we did grow out of it. Sometime before our eighth birthday, it just …stopped. We didn’t need to anymore, I guess. Mum missed it more than anyone. Still does, I think.

“Look at them, aren’t they precious?” she said one day, showing pictures to a friend of hers who’d come over for lunch. James frowned and approached the back of the couch where they were sitting, peered down at the photo album. Nearly all the colour drained from his face.

“When did you take that?” he asked.

“When you were five, love,” said mum. “Look at you with your arm draped over Ollie like that.”

James stormed out of the room then, but mum took no notice. I followed him. Mum had an album full of adorable pictures of us. I wasn’t keen to hang around either.

“Can you believe her?” James asked as soon as I entered his room. “She’s humiliating us!”

“That’s kind of her thing, Jay. It’s just what she does.”

“Yeah, well, she needs a new hobby, if you ask me. What does she mean by showing those pictures to people? I can’t believe she even took them! While we slept! That’s just creepy!”

“She misses her little boys, that’s all. Would you stop pacing? Come here.” I took him by his shoulders to hold him still.

“I don’t see how you’re okay with this. She could’ve at least waited till we were out of the room. We’re seventeen! What seventeen-year-old wants pictures like that shown round? God, why did we even _do_ that?”

“We were little, we didn’t know any better. And we had so much fun together. Remember how we used to pretend our blankets were a forte, remember that?”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah, I remember.”

“And how many times did we pop the screen out of the window and climb out onto the roof?”

“We could’ve really hurt ourselves.”

“That’s what made it fun.”

He smiled more broadly.

“Mum and dad never did find out about that.” I stepped closer to him. “We had an amazing time back then. There’s nothing weird about that.”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“What’s up, boys?” said a voice from the doorway. James and I turned toward it. Our father had poked his head in and was eyeing us suspiciously.

“Nothing,” mumbled James, stepping away from me and crossing his arms. I stuck my hands in my pockets.

“Sorry about your mother,” said dad, trying to sound cheerful, but still giving us the hairy eyeball. “You know how she gets.”

I returned his nervous smile. James didn’t respond at all.

“Come back down. I made her put that infernal album away. And we’re about to eat. James, Christi’s wondering where you’ve gotten to.”

“We’ll be down in a minute,” said James, turning away from him. When he left, James turned back and glared at the spot where his head had been.

“Why’s he suddenly so interested in getting you and that woman’s daughter together?” I asked.

“Hadn’t you noticed?” he said, a nasty look on his face. “He thinks I’m gay.”

“What?” I acted shocked, but I wasn’t really. James hadn’t come out to anybody yet, but it was clear to me he wasn’t straight.

“He had this bizarre talk with me the other night. Asked me if I fancied anybody, and when I said ‘no’, which is the truth, he asked if I’d been noticing any girls at school.”

“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief. My jaw was on the floor. I sat on his bed and watched him continue to pace.

“Yeah. I said ‘yes’, hoping he’d shut up and go away. But then he started going on about Mrs. Greenwood’s daughter and how they’re coming for lunch on Saturday and hasn’t Christi grown into a pretty thing, and isn’t it interesting how she’s always talking about me and staring at me.”

“Well, she is always staring at you,” I smirked. He shot me a look.

“Yes, I noticed that, and it’s bloody annoying. I’m not interested and I’m not going back down there so mum can embarrass us and Christi can undress me with her eyes and dad can keep an eye on you and me, make sure we’re not playing footsie under the table or something!”

I didn’t bother acting surprised at that statement. James and I both knew it; dad thought James was gay and that it was somehow my fault. Because of our excessive closeness when we were younger. He’s never questioned my sexuality. Not to my face anyway. I have to wonder what he thinks of me.

“It’s his biggest fear now we’re famous, you know. He’s terrified the world will discover his son is a big -”

“Keep your voice down!” I hissed. “They’ll hear you.”

He reluctantly shut his mouth, but he looked like he wanted to punch something. “I’m not going back down there,” he finally said, his voice lowered.

“Okay,” I said. I stood and went to him. I wanted to touch him, but it wasn’t safe. Dad could’ve returned any second. “Shall I bring you something to eat then?”

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, sighing heavily. “Thank you.”

“Forget it. Do you want me to come right back?”

“No, it’ll look weird.”

“I’ll be no longer than fifteen minutes, okay?”

I went back down into the trenches. There were questions. I told them James wasn’t feeling well, which wasn’t exactly a lie. Christi looked disappointed, but moments later began batting her eyelashes at me.

 

A year after we stopped sharing a bed, James started sleepwalking. He doesn’t do it all the time, only when he’s stressed. Sometimes we find him curled up under the kitchen table where he and I used to hide and spy when mum and dad would have company over. Other times, we’d find him sprawled out on the old recliner in the basement. It used to live upstairs, but we’ve since redecorated and moved it down out of the way. Grandma used to sit in it when she’d visit. She’d sit there, taking sips from her hip flask, and tell us stories about her life that may or may not have been true. James and I would sit on the carpet before her and just listen, fascinated.

Once, I awoke to find him standing before my bedroom window trying to pull the screen out, his eyes closed.

“That was the old house,” I whispered, gently taking his hands from the window. I lead him back to his room and tucked him in, worrying about what would’ve happened if he’d actually succeeded in removing that screen.

Well, he’d started sleepwalking again and I wondered why. Our shooting schedule was pretty hectic, but that had never bothered him before. We were booked for a few conventions later that summer, and I thought that might’ve been it. But then he told me about the talk dad had had with him a few days earlier, and I knew that had to be the trigger.

One night, he slipped into my room. I sat up.

“That was the old house, James,” I whispered, exasperated. He was asleep, of course, and couldn’t hear me – er, I guess he couldn’t hear me, I don’t really know how it works. I watched him wearily as he shuffled toward the window. But he began to veer off course a bit. He wasn’t going for the window. He was coming toward me.

He sat next to me and lay down. The deep, steady breathing I heard told me he was truly unconscious. I stared at him for a moment, wondering what to do. Finally, I shrugged and threw the covers over him, lay next to him, facing him.

“What’s the matter, Jamie?” I whispered. I wouldn’t dare call him that when he’s awake. I touched his face, brushed his hair off of it. My fingers traced his jaw line down to his neck, and my hand rested there. He sighed a bit on his next exhalation. He looked peaceful and like he was having pleasant dreams. I began to drift off as well.

At some point, I took my hand away. I felt his cold feet shortly thereafter, seeking warmth against my legs. His snoring woke me from the initial stages of sleep, and I rolled over, turning my back to him. Moments later, he was pressed up against me, snoring into my shoulder blade.

I decided to test him. I slipped away from him, slid all the way to the edge of the bed, and I watched him. He frowned and whimpered and immediately began to seek me out. He reached out, his hand like a large, slow-moving, flesh-coloured spider, venturing further and further away from his body. His fingertips finally grazed my arm, and he stopped frowning. Sure enough, he began to make his way over to me. I decided to meet him halfway. I extended my arms and he unconsciously moved into them. His head found my chest and he settled peacefully against me.

“You just want to be near me?” I whispered into the top of his head. “You miss this, eh? Yeah, me too.”

I kissed his hair and closed my eyes again.

In the morning, he was gone. When I found him having breakfast, I asked, “Did you happen to wake up anyplace strange this morning?”

The hand holding the cereal spoon fell away from his mouth and he gave an exasperated sigh. “Again?” he asked. I nodded. “Oh, for crying out … Where? Where did you find me? Do mum and dad know?”

“In bed with me, and no, they don’t.”

“Good, let’s not tell them … what?”

I looked up from the toaster. “Huh?”

“In _bed_ with you?”

“Yeah. You came in round one thirty this morning, and I thought you were going for the window again, but instead you got in bed with me. I guess you woke up and left at some point.”

“… I guess.”

“You don’t remember at all?”

“No. Do I ever? Why did I get in bed with you?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You seek out childhood comforts when you sleepwalk, Jay. You miss what we -”

“I do not miss that!” he snapped.

“On some level, you clearly do,” I replied calmly, buttering my toast. “I’m not saying you want it to start up again. Remember, you’re doing this unconsciously. This is simply how your desire for comfort and security are manifesting.”

“Well, thank you, Dr. Phil,” he said thickly through his mouthful.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I heard mum bustling about when I got up, she’ll be bursting in here any second, yelling at us to hurry.”

He mumbled unintelligibly, seeming to pout as he chewed.

We didn’t get to do much on set that day. We shot a very short scene, which, granted, took hours to do, but there was a great deal of waiting around before and after. James seemed normal enough around the cast and crew, but when we got back to our trailer and were alone, he fell silent, went stone-faced. He flopped down on the couch and stared straight ahead. I kept casting worried glances at him as I popped the top on a can of root beer.

“’Sup, Jay?” I said, still scrutinising him.

“I don’t understand why I would go to your bed,” he muttered, still not looking at me.

“I told you why.”

He looked like he was deep in thought. Then, slowly, he raised his eyes to meet mine.

“It’s always you,” he said, almost whispering. I said nothing, afraid to interrupt his train of thought. “The kitchen table was our hideout. The roof was a secret thing we did together. The recliner … I thought that one was about grandma, but I was always with you. She never told us stories individually.”

I went and sat next to him. “So, I’m your security blanket. Is that so bad?”

He shook his head. “I dunno.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I dunno,” he repeated, seeming to slump down further in his seat. “I … let’s not talk about it just now, okay?”

I stared at his profile for a moment, trying to decipher the look on his face, but all I could see was confusion and maybe a bit of anger. I sipped my root beer, wondering what was going on in his head.

That night, I lay in bed and I waited for the inevitable. I knew he was going to turn up sooner or later. And I wanted to be awake when he did. I wanted to be able to make room for him and make sure he had enough of the blankets. And sure enough, he came shuffling in around quarter after one that morning. He closed the door lightly behind him and made his way over. Just like the night before, he lay next to me and groped for me. I enveloped him in my arms and just held him.

I did miss being close to him. We never used to cuddle like this when we were kids, but I loved having him close by at night, knowing he was there, sharing secrets beneath the covers. I loved what an unstoppable team we were during the day, tag team aggravating mum and dad, scheming and plotting in our many hiding places. We were going to take over the world. Together.

And all those nights spent on the roof, counting stars against the inky sky or watching the moon peek out from behind bluish-gray clouds, illuminating them from the inside out it seemed. Everything seemed magical on those nights. And everything seemed possible. And we wanted for nothing on those nights. There was no wondering about tomorrow or next year or if there was someone somewhere who truly understood what it was like to be a kid, to be us. That person was always just a foot or two away, just over to the left or right. And it didn’t matter what happened tomorrow, just as long as we could always look over and find each other.

Things had changed so much over the passed few years. Things were hectic and volatile, and everything was everyone’s business and nothing was sacred or private. We’d belonged only to each other once, and now it seemed we belonged to the world. In many ways, it’s wonderful. In other ways … I understand why James’s sleepwalking started up again. Of course he was stressed.

I listened to him breathe, felt his warm breath on my bare chest. I thought about that day, so many years ago, when we’d overheard that conversation mum and dad had had about us sleeping together. _“I highly doubt they’ll be seventeen and still sharing a bed,”_ mum had said. I smiled against James’s hair. If she only knew.

James slipped a leg over me. He was hard inside his pyjamas, I could feel it against my thigh. I suppose I should’ve been repulsed or something. But I wasn’t. Not even close. It didn’t seem the least bit weird. I only wished he could be conscious and enjoying the closeness along with me. I only wished he could be aware that his erection was pressing into me and not care, just like I didn’t. I wished we could lie there together and hold each other because we both wanted to and look into each other’s eyes and know that we were both thinking the same thing, that we were both thinking “Fuck what the world thinks”.

I pressed my lips to his forehead. After a moment, he pressed back. I swept his hair off his face. He sighed at the light touch of my fingers on his temple. I nestled my thigh more tightly between his legs. He pushed his erection more firmly against me.

“James?” I whispered, wondering if maybe he really was awake, maybe he was only pretending. He didn’t respond.

I continued to wonder though. His responses didn’t seem like that of someone who was really asleep. One more test, I thought. Just one more. If he wakes up and slugs me in the eye, well, it’s better that happens sooner rather than later.

I took a deep breath and held it without realizing it as I plunged my hand down, slid it in between his crotch and my thigh, and I cupped him, felt his hardness and his balls and I gave them a squeeze, massaged them a bit. I watched his face and listened and waited. I felt him press into my hand, felt him rock his hips, grinding against the new pressure.

“James,” I said more forcefully. Nothing.

Okay, then, I thought, one more test. This was the big one. I removed my hand from between his legs and used it to grip his jaw and turn his face upward, toward mine. His lips were parted slightly. I gulped and leaned in, extended my tongue just a bit, licked his lips.

His upper lip twitched.

I licked again, and this time, I didn’t pull away. If he was going to freak out and sink his teeth into my tongue, so be it. But that didn’t happen. Quite the opposite, actually. He opened up a bit wider for me. I slipped my tongue inside as far as it would go. His tongue licked at mine.

I was kissing him. I rolled him onto his back, cradled his neck and head in my hand and kissed him deeply. He wasn’t exactly kissing back, but his mouth would widen intermittently and I found I could let his jaw go, and his face remained pointed toward mine. I went for his cock again, put my hand inside his pyjamas.

I stopped kissing him and watched his face as I wrapped my hand around his shaft. I ran my fingers up and down it, feeling the way it curved slightly upward, taking note of its thickness and length, the shape of the head. It felt like mine. Almost exactly.

I stroked him gently and continued watching him. His left eyebrow twitched. He turned his face away, then back again. He still looked relaxed and peaceful, but he was, on some level, aware that something was happening. I stroked faster, hoping to elicit a stronger reaction. I registered some slight squirming, but for the most part he lay limply in my arms, his breathing quickening.

I kicked the covers off us, hoping the sudden chill wouldn’t wake him. It didn’t. I stopped masturbating him to push the stretchy, elastic waistband down so I could see him, see his dick for the first time in, at least, a decade, since the last time we bathed together.

“You look just like me,” I whispered, staring at it and caressing it lovingly. I dunno what I expected it to look like. I reached down further and gave his balls a squeeze and looked back at his face. I half expected him to be watching me, but he was still fast asleep. My eyes traveled back and forth over the bare expanse of skin from his crotch to his neck. He was exposed and completely at my mercy, and it occurred to me that this might qualify as molestation. The notion troubled me, made me very uneasy. I looked away from his erection, back up at his face. And I wondered.

He had come to me, after all. I mean, yes, he was asleep, but he’d reached for me, actively sought me out whenever I’d pull away. I kissed him, and he’d opened his mouth for me. I touched him, and he’d pushed against that touch, no matter what it was I was touching.

My hand gripped his cock again. He thrust gently into it and sighed. But it was more than a sigh, it was a word. A name. My name.

“Ollie …”

Had there been any background noise at all, I would’ve missed it, would’ve dismissed it as a simple breath. But he’d definitely said my name. He was calling to me. And I couldn’t ignore that. I responded the only way that made sense. I’d already begun, after all. And he wanted me to finish.

I almost couldn’t help myself anyway. Hearing him sigh my name like that, knowing he needed me, caused something to awaken in me. I began stroking him again, harder and faster than before, and I pushed my tongue back into his mouth, deep inside, knowing it was as close to fucking him as I was going to get.

And he responded. He opened his mouth and arched off the bed a little. And he sighed again. Right into my mouth.

At this point, I wanted him so badly, I almost didn’t care about waking him up. It crossed my mind briefly that he might just do that, that he might wake up and find me doing things to his body and invading his mouth, and freak out. Our relationship would be ruined forever, I knew that. But I couldn’t stop now. I had to touch him. I had to taste him.

He was panting into my mouth now, his body quivering in my arms and his cock pulsing in my fist. I began to wonder what he was seeing behind his eyelids when he started softly groaning. I stopped kissing him so I could watch him again. His eyes were darting about beneath his lids.

He convulsed particularly hard and I knew he was about to come. I slid my hand out from under his head and leaned over to take his prick in my mouth. I continued pumping his shaft while sucking lightly on the head, and I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He arched again just as his cock gave a little jerk, and a second later he was filling my mouth. A couple of his spasms shook the bed, and I was surprised he didn’t wake up. I swallowed the warm, salty liquid, not exactly loving the taste, but still disappointed when the flow stopped. I swallowed the last of it and took my mouth away.

He was lying quite still again, breathing slightly harder than normal. And he was reaching for me again. His left hand, which had been lying at his side, was now pulling at my arm. I pulled his pants back up over his softening prick and lay down next to him. And then he did the cutest thing I’ve ever seen him do; he rolled toward me, onto his side, and buried his face in my armpit. Armpits produce a lot of pheromones, so I can only assume he was craving my scent. I couldn’t help but smile, and not just because his nose was poking and tickling me. I didn’t even mind that I wasn’t going to get to orgasm as well. I could’ve finished myself off if I’d really wanted to, but somehow it seemed wrong to do that while he was asleep next to me. Yes, it is bizarre that I feel it’s okay to touch him while he’s asleep, but not to touch myself. He’d _asked_ me to touch him, in his own unconscious way. I hadn’t gotten the go-ahead to toss myself off, and I’m not sure how he could possibly manage to give me that permission in his sleep anyway.

And it didn’t matter. He was peaceful and content and relaxed and in my arms, happily sniffing at my armpit, and that was all I cared about.

 

I wasn’t surprised that he was, once again, gone in the morning, but I was disappointed. I was hoping he’d stay. So, I hoped for the next best thing; that he’d remember. No such luck. I didn’t bring it up, and neither did he.

But he came to me again that night. And the night after that, and the night after that. And I made him come each time, afterward holding him securely in my arms as we slept. The fifth night he visited, however, was a bit different.

He came in wearing his dark blue dressing gown. He closed the door and shuffled toward me. I moved over to make room for him. He fell into bed, face up, and just lay there as though waiting for something. I knew what it was too. He was waiting for me to open his robe. I pulled at the belt, feeling a bit like I was unwrapping a present. And I guess I was, really. I folded the cloth back, revealing his perfect, naked form.

I wondered briefly how this had come about. Had he gone to bed naked and put the dressing gown on in his sleep when he’d gotten up, or had he gone to bed wearing it, which he never does? I couldn’t decide which was more unlikely, and was soon distracted by other, more important matters, like, for instance, his belly button, his nipples, his leaking cock, all of which required lots of kisses and licks. But I kissed his mouth first, kissed him ‘hello’ first, as I had done every night. I only wished he’d let me kiss him ‘goodbye’.

I lay between his legs and tended to his balls, lovingly bathing them with my tongue, then taking them in my mouth and sucking them with my arms hooked under his thighs, my hands gripping their tops. I don’t know how long I stayed down there, flanked by his legs, surrounded by his skin, his warmth, his scent, right up against my face and my nose. I didn’t ever want to come back up. I became intensely aroused and began to grind against the bed. I finally couldn’t hold back any longer. I unhooked one of my arms and reached underneath myself, inside my cotton pants. I abandoned his balls, moved up a bit, took his cock in my mouth and rolled onto my side so I could play with myself.

James, who’d been quite relaxed during his testicle bath, had begun to pant and squirm until his body convulsed, his cock twitched, and he began to spurt into my mouth. I took it all, drank him down, consumed him, feeling the pressure and heat building between my own legs. When he was finished, when I’d swallowed the last of him, I sat up. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make myself come in his presence without his permission, it just didn’t feel right. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I’ll be right back, I promise.” I tore myself away from him and dashed off to the bathroom where I came hard into a wad of toilet paper, whispering his name as I did so, exhaling that one syllable over and over.

I returned to my room to find him all fetal in the center of the bed, and was immediately wracked with guilt for having left him. I rushed back to him, took him in my arms, covered us both with blankets and snuggled him till I fell asleep.

I woke up just after dawn, surprised and happy to find him still with me. I smiled and held him tight, kissed his forehead and whispered, “I love you,” several times, until he began to stir. I stopped dead. What would he say? Would he be angry?

He made one final attempt to burrow into my armpit before opening his eyes and looking up at me confusedly. We blinked at each other for a few seconds. Then he frowned and sat up so quickly, the bed gave a little squeak.

“What – I –” he stammered, putting his hand to his head. “Oh, god …”

“Now, don’t freak out -”

“Oh, my god,” he said as he peeked under the covers at his naked body. “Oh, my god.”

“James -”

“How long’ve I been here?”

“Er …” I glanced at my clock. “’Bout six hours, I think.”

“Six _hours?_ And you just let me stay?”

“Well, I know you’ve no way to know this, but you can be very persistent when you’re asleep -”

“Why am I naked?”

“Now, that I have no idea about.”

He hugged the covers close to his torso. “Turn round,” he demanded.

“What?”

“Close your eyes or something. I’m going.”

“Close my … you can’t be serious. I’ve already seen you, James. And anyway, we look exactly -”

“I don’t care! Close your eyes!”

“James,” I said soothingly, touching his shoulder. He flinched, but he didn’t pull away. “Just stay, okay?”

He fixed me with an accusatory glare. “You want this,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Well -”

“You want this to start up again, don’t you?”

“Well, I didn’t before, but then you showed up that first night, and it was so nice to have you … with me again.”

He was gaping at me in disbelief.

“Just stay. Just for a bit longer. Please? Ten minutes. If you want to leave after that, I won’t stop you. I promise. Please?”

His gaze softened somewhat. He seemed to be considering it.

“You subconsciously want this for some reason. Don’t fight it. You’ll only end up back here tomorrow night, you know that.”

His shoulders slumped and he bit his lip as he thought. He gave me a worried little glance. I tried to look as supportive as possible. I didn’t dare move. I didn’t want to scare him away.

But finally he laid back down, pulling the covers up to his chin and staring at the ceiling. I cautiously lay next to him again, facing him, watching him, watching his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallowed nervously.

“Relax, James. You’ve been doing this all week, nothing’s changed.”

“Oh, I think one really major thing has changed, wouldn’t you say?” he snapped.

“It’s no different than last night, okay? Just relax.” I placed a hand on his belly.

“W-what’re you doing?” he asked.

“Um, well, you like to … cuddle.”

“I do?” he asked, frowning at the ceiling.

“Yeah. And other stuff.”

“… What other stuff?”

“Don’t worry about it, let’s just get some sleep, okay? You’re tired. Come here.”

“But -”

I propped myself up on my elbow, looked down at him, gauging his reactions. As I slid my arm under his neck, he stared back at me, wide-eyed and clearly nervous. I chuckled a bit.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you know.”

His eyes darted as I drew him nearer, brought his head to my chest and settled back down with him cradled in my arms. He fidgeted, shifted, and finally began to relax. The tension dissolved from his muscles as the minutes ticked by. His body seemed to melt, and soon he wasn’t afraid to move anymore, soon he felt comfortable enough to nuzzle my chest a bit and caress my stomach.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Okay … Ol? What was the other stuff you mentioned before?”

I hesitated. I had no idea how he’d react to knowing what I’d done to him while he slept.

“Uh,” I began. “I don’t remember exactly how it started. You see, you really seem to enjoy … touching me and … being touched while you’re asleep. You sort of reach for me and get annoyed if I pull away. And one night, I guess my hand went wandering a bit, and, well, you seemed to like it, so …”

He didn’t respond right away. We lay together in silence for a couple of minutes. I hadn’t finished the sentence, but he obviously knew what I meant. And he wasn’t yelling or pulling away.

“What do you do to me?” he finally asked.

“Make you come. With my hand. Sometimes with my mouth. That’s all. Oh, and I kiss you. You seem to like that.”

“I came? You’d think I’d wake up.”

“Yeah, you’d think that.”

“Yeah … What do you do with my … I mean, when I come, where do I, erm -”

“In my mouth. Always.”

“And you, er … swallow?”

“Yeah.”

I felt him take a deep breath. Warm air danced across my chest as he exhaled.

“And you kiss me?”

“Mm-hm.”

“What do I do?”

“You open your mouth and lick at me a bit.”

“Oh.” He said this as though I’d just revealed a mildly interesting fact, like why the sky’s blue or how planes stay up. He didn’t sound like someone who’d just discovered his brother had essentially been molesting him while he slept.

“What about you?” he went on after a moment. “Did you ever … you know?”

“Not in your presence. I go and do it in the bathroom.”

“Oh,” he said again in the same tone. “Why?”

This threw me a bit. Why? What’d he mean why? Wasn’t what I’d done to him creepy enough? Did I really have to explain why I hadn’t felt right making myself come while he slept, completely unaware, in my bed?

“Well, it just didn’t feel right. I mean, the whole situation was already a bit dodgy, so …” I trailed off there and waited for him to go on.

“I’m gay, you know,” he said suddenly.

“I know.”

“You?”

“Not gay, exactly. More … curious, I guess.”

“Oh.”

I felt him nip at my chest and rub his nose against it. I felt him move his body closer until his erection was right up against my thigh. I felt his hips move, but only once. Had he just rubbed his cock against me?

I kissed his forehead. He accepted this, even leaned into the kiss a little. I began to caress his back, my hand venturing onto the side of his ribcage and down to his arse and his thigh. He didn’t protest.

“Did you think about fucking me?” he asked. Hearing him say that made my dick twitch.

“Of course I did.”

“You never put your fingers inside me?”

“No. I was afraid that would wake you.”

He shifted again, sliding a leg over top of mine. His hips were moving ever so slightly now. I brought a hand up to my face and licked a finger. That hand moved slowly down, along the slope of his back to the rise of his bottom. My dry fingers traveled along his crack, parting the skin, and my wet finger slid inside, found his opening, pressed into it, breaching it. It convulsed several times as my finger pushed its way in. James began to squirm.

“Had you ever thought of me that way before?” he asked, his tone normal, as though my finger wasn’t buried inside him.

“Sexually? Er, yeah, I guess. I never meant to. Thoughts would just pop into my head, you know?”

He turned his face up toward mine and our eyes locked. I moved my finger about, and I guess I did something right, because he gave a soft little gasp and his body jerked. I tried to duplicate what I’d done, and I kept doing it. His breathing quickened.

“Mmm,” he exhaled. “Ollie …”

The gentle sighing of my name; it was soft and high-pitched and sounded almost like a question and the sweetness of it broke my heart. I pulled my finger out of him, rolled him onto his back. I covered his mouth with mine as I settled on top of him. He kissed back, but only for a second. He pulled away shortly thereafter.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he whispered. “It’ll change everything.”

I looked at him and stroked his cheek. “The change has already begun, James. Don’t you think?”

The wheels in his head were spinning. He looked torn, worried. I slid off of him, and he met my eyes, his own questioning.

“If you tell me to stop, I will,” I said. “I won’t touch you again if you don’t want me to, even if you beg for it in your sleep.”

His conflicted look intensified, but he said nothing. I put my mouth to his ear, asked him pointblank, “Do you want me to stop?” My hand slid onto his crotch, cupped it beneath the covers.

“W-we really shouldn’t,” he whimpered.

“No, we shouldn’t,” I whispered, stroking his hardness. “But do you want me to stop? Just say the word, James.”

“This is so sick,” he said in barely a whisper. His breaths were speeding up again.

“We can just snuggle, if you like -”

“- this could really screw us up -”

“- all you have to do is tell me ‘no’ -”

“- and what if dad found out -”

“- ‘cause I don’t want to hurt you -”

“- so incredibly wrong -”

“- say the word, James.”

He was trembling. He looked frightened. He glanced off to the right, away from me. He said, “This is so … so …” He didn’t seem able to finish.

“Tell me what you want. What will make you happy?”

And he finally answered. He didn’t say a word. He barely moved. The only thing he did was close his eyes. That’s it.

And that was all I needed.

It was a gesture that spoke louder than any words he could’ve uttered. “Take me,” it said. “Touch me,” it said. “All the things you’ve thought of doing before, but were afraid to; do them,” it said. I roughly pulled his body right up against mine, pulled his leg overtop of me, squeezed his thigh as my tongue plunged into his mouth. I think I scared him a little with the intensity of my need. Hell, I scared myself. I’d no idea how badly I’d wanted the go-ahead, how much I’d wanted to get the “okay” from him. I’d been bottling up so much, even as I’d touched him in the night, I’d kept so much of my passion locked away. I’d had to, the full extent would’ve woken him. But by giving me permission, he’d unlocked that little vault inside me. And now, there really was no turning back.

I waited. It took everything I had, but I waited until he was ready. I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d hurt him. I massaged and loosened him with my fingers, sliding them into his warmth, one after the other, stroking his cock with my other hand at the same time. Watching him was driving me mad, the way his body reacted to my touch, the way he was forced to express his pleasure mainly through movement, for fear of waking our parents. And every stifled groan, every swallowed gasp filled his body with an electricity I could feel, an urgency I could see. His thrusts, his arching up off the bed, even his tongue making a pass along his upper lip; every move seemed controlled, as though one slip would send all his swallowed sounds flying from his throat.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw as I hovered above him, poised at his entrance. He was nervous, afraid even, but ready all the same, with his legs spread wide. He was as desperate for it now as I was, and he was determined to take me, all of me. His determination manifested in an angry expression, his brow furrowed. If his eyes had been open, he’d’ve been glaring.

I forced my way in. He flinched a split second before I’d even touched him, but his body accepted me. He didn’t make a sound, not initially. His eyes rolled back in his head and he arched again. I watched his long neck, watched his throat undulate beneath the creamy skin as though a scream I couldn’t hear was flowing through it and out his open mouth. And I fucked him. I won’t kid myself, I know what that was. It wasn’t lovemaking, although I love him fiercely. _That_ was not lovemaking. _That_ was pure, unadulterated fucking. _That_ was the ultimate release. _That_ was the closest to exploding a human being can get without sustaining injury.

I had a need to fill his body with me, to inhabit every square inch of him. When my tongue found his mouth again, it stayed there for some time, as I rammed him into the mattress, not caring that the bed squeaked, not caring that it was banging against the wall. I had no fear then. Our father, with his prejudice and bigotry and pressuring and prying and macho bullshite, could go straight to hell. Right then, I needed my brother. And he needed me.

I shifted my weight a little so I could grasp his cock. I began to pump it in my fist, and he finally began to lose control.

“No,” he said. “Don’t.”

“Why?” I snarled. “Afraid? Afraid of being heard?”

“Yes.” He reached between us and tried to pull my hand away, but I grabbed it with my free hand and pinned it above his head. His other hand I easily blocked with my hip.

“Afraid Dad’ll hear and come find us like this?”

“Of course!” he hissed, his voice becoming shaky and slightly hysterical as the pressure built in his midsection.

“Fuck him.”

“Ollie -”

“The _hell_ with him.”

“But -”

“I hate the way he treats you.”

 _“Ungh!”_ he grunted loudly as I stroked him faster. He struggled to release his hand from my grip, but failed.

“You’re perfect,” I murmured, nearing my climax. “You’re fucking perfect and beautiful and I love you and I want to hear you scream.”

“No!” he whispered harshly through clenched teeth.

“Scream for me.”

“Don’t make me!”

But he couldn’t’ve stopped it then. He’d passed the point of no return. I felt his prick convulse in my fist, and he dissolved into incoherence as his slippery wetness spurted onto my hand and our bellies. And he cried out. He couldn’t help it.

“Do you feel that?” I whispered shakily as my own body shuddered. “Do you feel me coming inside you?”

“Yes!” he growled back.

“Do you, baby?”

“I feel … every … single … drop of you!” He emitted another loud grunt as his body gave one final and particularly hard jerk. He deposited one last load of cum onto his stomach, and then seemed to sink into the mattress, panting, utterly exhausted.

I relaxed on top of him, breathing hard against his neck. The lust, the need, the desire, it all sort of fell away as I began to catch my breath and regain my senses. The magnitude of what we’d just done … of what _I’d_ just done, seeped into my brain. He’d never actually said ‘yes’. Had I imagined his consenting? I wasn’t sure anymore. I was afraid to move. I had to look at him eventually, but I just couldn’t. I was terrified of what I might see in his eyes … of what I might not see. Oh, god …

He’d cried “No!” What’d he said no to? I couldn’t remember.

“Mmm,” he groaned and shifted beneath me. His hands went roaming across my sweaty back. I dared to look, pushed up onto my elbows and looked into his eyes. He was smiling at me. A dopey, satisfied sort of smile.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Yeah … Erm, it’s nearly eight-thirty. We should -”

“Yeah, we should get going.”

We sat up and proceeded to clean ourselves off with tissues, casting embarrassed glances up into each other’s eyes.

“Do you regret it?” I asked.

He stopped wiping his stomach for a moment. “No. You?”

“No. D’you think we will eventually?”

He pondered that for several seconds. “I don’t know,” he finally answered. He tossed his tissues away and got out of bed, dragging his dressing gown with him. He stopped in the center of the room and slipped his arms into it, then finally noticed me staring. For a moment, he just stood there, his long slender paleness flanked by dark blue flannel and bathed in clear white morning light, the cloth falling from one shoulder, his dyed hair tousled and in his eyes, his hands falling from the flannel lapel and coming to rest just before his belly, left fingers clasped lightly in his right. He gazed back at me, and I took in that perfect picture for what seemed like ages, until he finally became flustered and looked away, closing the dark blue curtain round his frame. He was smiling to himself as he exited the room. I watched him disappear through the door as I put a t-shirt on, making sure it was long enough to cover the little wet spots on my pyjamas pants. I finally left the room, expecting to find the hallway empty. It wasn’t.

James was standing up against a wall, his arms crossed, staring down at his feet. Our father was standing before him, staring right at his face, a look of such intense disappointment on his own, I was having a difficult time staying angry with him. He didn’t even look mad. Just … let down. Saddened. Deflated.

I stepped close to James. He took a step away, but I grabbed his arm.

“Oliver!” he hissed at me.

“I’ll deal with dad, just go,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about him, just go do what you were going to do.”

“But -”

“Go!”

He frowned at me, then turned frightened eyes on our father. For a moment, it looked like he wasn’t going to leave, was too afraid of upsetting dad further. But he spun round suddenly and walked quickly away, arms still folded, slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

I turned to dad. “Go on and say it,” I said quietly.

He swallowed. “What is it you expect me to say?”

“I dunno. I figure you must have something to say, might as well get it over with.”

He bit his lip and looked away. He glanced into my room. I assumed he was looking for evidence to use against us, but after a moment it seemed he was simply staring out the window. He said nothing. He turned slowly away from me and trudged back down the hall toward his and mum’s room. A knot of guilt formed somewhere behind my sternum.

“Are you going to tell mum?” I called after him.

He stopped in the middle of the hall, just stood there for a moment. He finally turned back to me, asked “Tell her what, Oliver?” in a slightly accusing tone, his gaze suddenly cold. I realised immediately my mistake. All he’d seen was James coming out of my room, he had no real proof of anything, but I’d essentially just admitted to wrong-doing. Why would he tell mum anything if there was nothing to tell?

I remained silent, figuring that was best, and he eventually went on his way, turning his back on me again. It felt so final this time, like the end of something, like the closing of a door. And I had no idea if I’d ever be able to get it open again.

I heard the toilet flush, and the bathroom door opened just a crack. One of James’s eyes peered out.

“He’s gone,” I assured him. He emerged cautiously, glancing up and down the hall. “But I’d steer clear of him for a while.”

He shuffled his feet. “Ol,” he said. “I think we should -”

I cut him off. I stepped toward him, shushing him. “Don’t say it.”

“Ol -”

“Don’t say it, James. Please. If you don’t want this, then … find a way to keep yourself out of my room when you sleepwalk. Because if you come to me, I won’t be able to deny you. Not now. Not after …” I glanced into my room, at the bed. I could still see where he’d been lying, see the indentation in the rumpled sheets. I saw the darkened wet patch on the cotton where moisture had leaked from him after I’d withdrawn. I ached inside and looked away. “Maybe we should put a lock on my door,” I suggested sadly.

“I was going to suggest the same thing,” he said.

My heart sank. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is … but I think keeping dad out would be a better use for it. Don’t you?”

I looked up at him. He smiled.

“Well, don’t look so shocked,” he said. He stepped toward me, pressed against me, slid his hands up onto my shoulders. He leaned in for a kiss, but I leaned away.

“Right here in the hall?” I asked. “What about …” I jerked my head in the direction of our parents’ room.

He shrugged. “The hell with him,” he whispered, and I kissed him hard, half-hoping dad would emerge and catch us, but he didn’t.

James didn’t sleepwalk into my room that night. He sneaked in, fully awake. Come to think of it, he hasn’t sleepwalked at all since.

END


End file.
